Fragments of humanity
by TrelawneyofSinclair
Summary: Every time John Watson closed his eyes, the ghosts of the war would spring back to life. They would fray the remnants of his sanity. Only one person knew of his secret. By chance he finds a letter in their fireplace, a letter he was never meant to see.


**Fragments of humanity**

Old military habits. They always seemed oblivious to his psychosomatic limp; they never ceased to haunt him with the echoes of the war. They had consumed him like the cobweb would consume its spider eventually. And even now, when he had escaped the webs that tied him to the service, they still tied to strangle him at every waking moment. He could feel their strings around his sanity and wished that they just would let him suffocate. But he very well knew that they would never capitulate to his cowardly pleas. They had sworn to never let him forget the scars of his soldiering life and they replayed the same dreadful symphony of blood and butchering for him every night.

He had tossed and turned, clenched his fingers tightly around the bars of his bed and stabbed into the wood with his finger nails, whilst he bit his teeth down into the soft tear-soaked realm of the pillow in hope of the pain letting him hold on to the blissful safety of his beloved Baker Street. But there was no mercy to be found in these never-ending displays of disaster. He remember that he had at some point tried to scream his mental horrors away, but it only seemed to emphasize the terror of the explosives and make everything more vivid.

Sherlock had grown used to it. The very first night he had been sleeping in their new lodgings, it had been much worse. He had been rolling around mumbling and wincing in a strange half-sleepy trance, before he had woken up with the sound of gun fire ringing in his ears and he had shrunk into a little corner by the end of the bed, holding on to his military pistol with shaking hands and silent tears running down his face. Without a word Sherlock had been standing in the doorway in his dressing gown, he had knelt down in front of him and gently lifted the pistol out of his cupped hands. His hands had stopped shaking as he had looked into the reassuring darkness of the dark eyes. As he woke up next morning, the pistol had been placed at its usual place on the night stand, as if it had never been lifted out of place. And Sherlock had never even once mentioned the matter to him since then. But there was no doubt in his mind of it having happened. He did not have enough imagination himself to imagine such a scenario.

He could not face the horrors of his nightmares once again. His nerves were already frayed as the ends of an antique carpet, and in three hours time he would have to mend others' frayed nerves down at the clinic. He would be of no use if he let his fears get the best of him. He got out of the bed and pulled the dressing gown closer around him before stepped out of his bed room, only too glad to leave the playground of his fears and shut the door behind him. As he passed the shut door leading into his friends bed room, he had barely lifted his hand to knock on the wood of the door, before he lowered it again and put it into the pocket of the gown. Why should Sherlock have to share his sufferings and get out of his bed at this atrocious time where the sun had not even risen yet? Besides, he probably needed that sleep. They had been staying up late last night, the pair of them sitting with a cup of coffee in front of the fireplace and once again reflecting on Sherlock's spectacular deduction skills in the case of the Lauriston Gardens murders and how Sherlock loathed it being published on his blog. And by the time he himself had retired, the great detective had still been consumed by staring absentmindedly into the orange remnants of the fire without any signs of fatigue. The great Sherlock Holmes was as unexplainable as the way he solved the extraordinary cases in the eyes of his friend, roommate and colleague, Dr. John Watson.

Their living room was as messy as usual. As he dodged a few open medical books and picked them up from the floor whereas he placed them on the coffee table by the fire, he could not help smiling. The familiarity of it all was more calming than knowing he was no longer a part of the slaughter down in Afghanistan. But he would always be a part of it, he acknowledged as he let himself kneel in front of the ashes in the fireplace. He would participate in it every night. He would suffer like he did down there every night. Biting his lower lip to escape the dreadful tricks of his mind, he stretched out his fingers and let the tips gently bury themselves in the surface of the ashes. They were still comfortably warm. Sherlock had undoubtedly let it burn out less than an hour ago. As he drew his hand out of the fireplace, his gaze was averted to a little ball of pristine white paper lying in the far back of it, as if someone had thrown it inside the dying fire and hoped it would perish in the flames. He fished it out and turned it curiously over in his hand. The paper was still smooth and only slightly tainted in the edges by the fire. Perhaps it had been thrown in the fire a mere couple of hours ago and it had been chance that the fires had died before the paper was burned. But he had not done it. Then there was only one who could have done so. And he had not done it in his presence.

What reason could his friend have had for seeing this paper destroyed by the fire without his knowing of it? A number of them, he reckoned. And usually he would let him have them in peace. He was a man who respected his friends enough to let them decide whether he should carry their burdens with him. But some unknown urge to reveal the content of the letter was surprising him by persuading him to unfold the paper and read it. Sherlock knew him well, but how well did he himself know his friend? He felt he knew him as much as the reflection knew its mirror. They saw eye to eye, but whereas Sherlock could look into his very soul, he could barely see the skin of a stranger. It was his ways; he kept everything close to his heart and was as independent as a leaf in the breeze. But at times he appeared inhumane. And that was when he desired to try and get a glimpse of all those secrets he left untold.

But there was more to it than just a selfish wish to get to know the mysterious man that had introduced him to a strangely addicting and dangerous world of criminal activities. Sherlock Holmes had one true love: danger. And he constantly flirted with her, endangered his own life in attempts to feel alive. But he was not as bulletproof as he might think himself to be. And as his friend, Watson was concerned. This letter could be a message from some enemy that would soon threaten both him and Sherlock. And for once, he wanted to shield his friend instead of being shielded by his friend. He wanted to feel of some use. Not just being a loyal foot soldier to the great Sherlock Holmes. The war had taught him one lesson: both the foot soldiers and their commanders get hit by the same bullet, share the same painful death and is buried in the same type of coffin.

Slowly breathing in and after having re-established his confidence, he sat down in one of their comfy chairs in front of the fireplace and unfolded the paper ball. It revealed several lines in Sherlock's rather plain hand writing, written with a black ink pen. From its slightly chaotic order of the lines on the paper, it looked as if it had been written rather hurriedly. He turned on the light on the table, placed the paper on his knees and leaned across it with a strange feeling of curiosity.

_I am undoubtedly the last person you would have imagined writing this to you.__ And trust me; I had not written this if I had had any other options. But since you probably will not have high expectations of this letter, I should be able to actually live up to your standards for once. I much prefer to write this down in text; it simplifies thing and gets rid of all the sentiments. All the talking is what you have always been good at with your diplomacy and your cloak and daggering. After the incident in Lauriston Gardens, I have reason to believe that I face difficult cases that might take my life in the process of solving them. Although what you might think of my life it is irrelevant for the cause; if I do not get to solve the matters, I will make sure that Watson will complete my work. But it will be of greatest importance that I make amends of several years with childish battles fought with bitter irony and rebellious bellicosity. I will only write this once, so read carefully, Mycroft._

_For a long time I was annoyed at having an elder brother, who kept shielding me off from everything exciting in order to "protect" me. I wondered if it was not to control me like you control your Anthea, like you control all your other political minions. You have always enjoyed being the grand puppet master of intrigues from your comfortable chair. That is why discreet governmental __work interests you; you like pulling strings and see the outcome down in the heart of society without anyone suspecting you of it. Where there is not already a game at foot, you will find one. Whenever I was around at home, you dexterously made me your puppet in your little schemes. I would run out and do all the things you were too clever to do yourself. And as I realized that in my youth, I became hostile towards you. I deliberately used every weakness I knew you had, mostly your physical disadvantages. You have always been a great deal like our late father. Organized, neat, cunning, bureaucratic, well-fed and dull. _

_It was not a coincidence I turned on father and you and chose Cambridge instead of Oxford. I was bitter on both of you and wanted to dedicate myself to the deductive work, where I could use the one thing I was good at. That mother got hurt like this was a minority in the campaign I had set up against the two of you. I realized the pain I caused her too late. You were the socially gifted son. I was the socially deviant one, as our school master said. _

_But now that I have had years to consider everything, I think I should appreciate your concern more than ever. Especially since you are still trying to offer Watson money to get information. A word of advice: do not bother. He is far too loyal to do that. But thank you for the concern. I never rebelled against you and father in order to hurt you. I was trying to prevent myself from getting more hurt. I only wish that we could be on friendly terms, but you and I both know that is never going to happen. We are too diametrical for that to happen. My only hope is that you will remain in the legal governmental matters and not turn to crime. I would not want to see us fight each other. We are both too powerful for that__ and you would give Lestrade a head ache with your use of brain work. _

_- Sherlock _

He was left with a small feeling of joy. He was not sure why. Could it be that Sherlock Holmes actually liked that rather mysterious brother of his of whom he always bit the head off? It seemed like it. But he had curled the letter up and tossed it in the fire, he realized. He liked Mycroft, but he did not want him to know about it! Bellicose Sherlock, he thought with a fond smile. He would get bored if he was on friendly terms with his brother and he obviously liked their little fighting, how violent it seemed to John. So he did not want to admit it. After all, Sherlock was perhaps just one of many younger brothers, who looked up to their elder brother and expressed it in pretended hostility.

The sound of footsteps from Sherlock's room made him guiltily threw the paper back into the fireplace, tossed a few lumps of wood and an old newspaper on top of it and lit a match which he dropped down on the paper. Instantly the fire sprung to life on the paper and spread to the wood after a while. He leaned back with closed eyes and listened to the footsteps getting closer to him. "You should be getting ready for work." Sherlock pointed out, as he slid past him and fell down into the other chair, stretched out his feet and opened the fresh issue of the day's newspaper he had found in the kitchen. John smiled and shot him a questioning glance. "Anything of interest in the paper?" – Sherlock curled his brows together and made a disapproving sound. "Not much. The criminals of London seem to be out of ideas even before the sun sets. How very dull." Sherlock explained and tossed the paper aside. With a sceptical look from Watson, Sherlock laughed. "Now your boring little practice seems awfully interesting. Mind if I come along for observation?" Sherlock pointed out, got to his feet and pulled the curtains from the windows, before he curled up in the sofa, absorbed in thought. At the thought of Mycroft Holmes, Watson smiled secretively and kept watching the little fire.

John Watson was human enough to scream and cower when facing the torments he feared the most. But he did so with only one person knowing of it. It was soothing to know that he was not the only one who was human enough to secretly struggle with something. Sherlock Holmes was human enough to like his elder brother, but not admitting it. He decided that it was finally time to repay the kindness Sherlock had showed him by keeping quiet about the incident with his pistol, and he smiled tranquilly as he watched as the remnants of the letter being turned into black ashes.


End file.
